It doesn’t matter what’s between us. This could help stop the killings; it’s the right thing to do. He’ll do it.”
She nodded slowly, her face turned away from mine. “Crispin it is, then.”
Around us legions of bumblebees droned about happily, fluttering from petal to stalk to stipule, the lullaby of their steady buzzing a mild soporific.
Celia stood up from the stool, her eyes dark against honey-colored skin. “I’m glad…” She shook her head, as if to refresh her prose, and her long dark hair arched back and forth, the charm around her neck twisting in unison. “It’s been good to see you again, even under these circumstances. In a way I’m grateful you’ve been entangled in this mess.” She took my hand lightly in hers and stared into my eyes without blinking.
Her pulse was very rapid beneath her skin, and my own rose to meet it. I thought of all the reasons this was a bad idea, thought about everything that was rotten and spoiled and cheap about it. Then I thought about them again. This had been a lot easier ten years earlier. “You and the Master always have a place in my thoughts,” I said quietly.
“That’s all you’ll say, then? That I hadn’t completely deserted your memory?”
“I need to see how Wren is doing.” It was a weak excuse, for all that it was in fact true.
She nodded and walked me to the door, dejection marring her heart-shaped face.
Up in the main room, the Crane was sitting on an old chair, his back toward us, laughing and clapping his hands in rhythm. Each time he did so, the collection of sparks that swirled about the chamber changed color and shifted direction, swooping up to the ceiling, then diving toward the window. Wren hadn’t quite joined the Master in his jocularity, but to my surprise he wore an honest smile, a low thing that was mostly in his eyes, as if he was afraid someone would notice. It ended abruptly when he saw Celia and me return.
The Crane must have read our entry on the boy’s face, because he stopped clapping and the sparks dropped slowly to the ground, then disappeared. I put my hand on the Crane’s back. The blade of his shoulder was sharp beneath his robes. “I always loved that toy.”
The Crane laughed again, a bright thing, like his fireworks. I would miss it very much when he was gone. Then it faded and he elevated his head toward me. “That business we spoke of last time-”
Celia interrupted him. “It turned out fine, Master. That’s what he stopped by to tell us. Everything’s taken care of-you don’t need to think about it anymore.”
The Crane’s eyes flashed across Celia’s face, then searched mine for confirmation. I did something that might have been a shrug or a nod. He was old, and tired, and he took it as the latter. A smile spread back over his face, or at least something close enough to mimic it, and he turned back to Wren. “You’re a fine boy. Not like this ’en,” he said with a glance to my direction.
But Wren was having none of it. As if to make up for his moment of lightness he had stamped a sullen growl on his face, and gave the barest hint of a farewell nod to the Master.
The Crane had long years of experience dealing with the ingratitude of overproud youths, and he handled the snub with grace. “It was a pleasure to have had the opportunity to entertain Master Wren.” He continued with the same mock stiffness, “And you, sir, as always, are welcome anytime you wish.” Tell that to the gargoyle outside, I thought, but he seemed happy and hale and I kept my mouth shut.
Celia stood by the stairs and leaned down to meet Wren as he approached. “It was lovely meeting you. Perhaps when you return we’ll have more of a chance to chat.”
Wren didn’t respond. Celia kept her face friendly and waved the two of us past.
We left the Aerie and began our walk north. A few blocks went by as I ran over what I had learned, sifting through the noise for something valuable, something that would click with the rest of it.
Wren interrupted my contemplations. “I liked the tower.”
I nodded.
“And I liked the Crane.”
I waited for him to continue but he didn’t, and we walked on in silence.
I met Guiscard an hour or so later outside a small warehouse a few blocks from Black House. Having already availed myself once that day of the hospitality of my former employers, I wasn’t altogether keen on returning to the neighborhood-but I consoled myself with the thought that if the Old Man wanted me dead, proximity wouldn’t be an issue. It wasn’t exactly the sort of comfort that keeps you sleeping soundly at night, but it was all I had.
The building itself was the sort of structure that seemed to have been deliberately built so as to give no hint to the activities which took place inside. Storage space, you might have guessed if pushed, but only because you couldn’t think of anything more vague. Unlike Black House, the Box’s value was not enhanced by having its purpose widely advertised. It wasn’t a secret, though most of Rigus was happy to pretend itself ignorant. Because inside the Box the scryers made their nest, and to draw attention from them was to have your secrets made known-and what man alive doesn’t have a few things he’d rather keep quiet?
The kid towed himself behind me, quiet since we had left the Aerie, shifty even by his standards. I didn’t bother to draw him out. I had other things on my mind.
My favorite agent, after Crowley, sulked next to the doorway, smoking a cigarette like it was an affectation and not an addiction. He saw us from a hundred yards off but pretended otherwise, buying time for his histrionics to ripen. He was unhappy to be accompanied on this little side errand, and he wanted me to know it.
When we were too close to keep up the pretense, he flicked his half-smoked tab into the muck and looked me up and down with his usual tenderness, then trailed his eyes across Wren. “Who’s this?” he asked, almost decent, before catching himself and returning his thin lips to their practiced sneer.
“Can’t you see the resemblance?” I shoved Wren forward lightly. “The genteel nose, the grace and carriage that bespeak noble blood. You were fourteen, shallow and insipid-she was a chambermaid with a clubfoot and an overdeveloped jaw. When your parents learned of the affair, they packed her off to a nunnery and sent your issue abroad.” I tussled the boy’s hair. “But he’s back now. I imagine you two have a lot to talk about.”
Wren smirked a little. Guiscard shook his head, disdainful of any theatrics that weren’t his own. “It’s good to see you’ve kept your sense of humor-I would think with all that’s going on you wouldn’t have time for these childish jibes.”
“Don’t remind me. I’ve already changed pants twice today.”
That was about as much banter as he was capable of without outside assistance, and, realizing it, he headed inside.
“I’ll be out in a few minutes,” I told the boy. “Try and avoid doing anything that might lead Adolphus to beat me to death.”
“Don’t take shit from the snowman,” he said.
I laughed, shocked at his outburst and vaguely flattered to see the child take my feuds as his own. “I don’t take shit from anyone,” I said, though in fact most of my life lately seemed to consist of doing just that.
He blushed and looked down at his feet, and I followed Guiscard into the building.
Scryers are a strange breed, strange enough that they have their own headquarters away from Black House, and not just because part of their duties include the inspection and anatomization of dead bodies. They come in on big cases-murders and assaults, the occasional rape. Sometimes they get impressions, images or sense memories, bits of data, rarely entirely coherent but occasionally helpful. They aren’t artists, leastways not as I understand it- they have no ability to effect the physical world, but rather a sort of passive receptiveness to it, an extra sense the rest of us lack.
Are blessed to lack, I should say. The world is an ugly place, and we ought to be grateful for any blinders that limit our comprehension-better to scuttle along the surface than dive in the noxious waters beneath. Their “gift” is the sort that makes a normal life impossible, the undercurrents of existence bubbling up at inopportune moments. Those born with it are inevitably drafted into the service of the government, simply because any other kind of work is more or less impossible-imagine trying to sell a man shoes and flashing that he beats his children or has his wife sewn up in a sack. It’s an unpleasant sort of existence, and most investigators are hardened drunks or borderline lunatics. I’ve had a few as customers-ouroboros root mostly, though once they move on to the hard stuff, it’s not long before the brass come calling, or they decide to circumvent the authorities by falling into a river or huffing up a half pint of breath. It’s a common enough fate among their kind-few indeed die of natural causes.
Anyway, they’re useful enough as part of an investigation, so long as you don’t get too reliant on them. It’s a touchy thing, their second sight, and for every decent lead you’re liable to get two brick walls and a false trail. Once I spent a month digging through every hole in the Islander half of Low Town, only to discover that the man I was working with had never seen a Mirad before, and had mistaken the cinnamon tan of the murderer in his vision for
